“Yes; and back out of it all. Why not take passage somewhere, not as Jack, Commodore Junk’s brother, but as bonny Mary Dell o’ Devonshire, going back home along o’ Bart Wrigley, as is Bartholomew by rights?”
“Well?” said Jack, sternly.
“Don’t look black at me, my lad. I’m tired o’ boarding ships and sending people adrift.”
“Growing afraid, Bart?”
“Yes, my lad; but not for Bart Wrigley. For someone else.”
“You are preaching to-night, Bart.”
“Maybe, my lad, for it’s solemn times; and something keeps a-saying to me: ‘Don’t run no more risks! There’s old Devon a-waiting for you, and there’s the old cottage and the bay, and you’ve got the money to buy a decent lugger, and there’s plenty o’ fish in the sea.’”
“Go, on,” said Jack, mockingly.
“Ay, lad, I will,” said Bart. “And you might settle down there, and live happy with a man there to wait on you and be your sarvent—ay, your dog if you liked; and some day, if you thought better of it, and was ready to say, ‘Bart, my lad, you’ve been a true chap to me, and I know as you’ve loved me ever since you was a boy, so now I’ll be your wife,’ why, then—”
Bart stopped with his lips apart, gazing wonderingly at the angry countenance before him.